


The River

by Senshi



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, written for eruri week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senshi/pseuds/Senshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rivaille washes clothes, and in the process, cleans away something more than just dirt and stains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The River

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Eruri Week.

Rivaille found himself at the river near headquarters, a basket of dirty laundry under his arm and a bar of soap in his left hand. The water flowed over the rocks, continuing their journey downstream and lapping at the deep crevices between the pebbles of the pebbles lining the riverbank. It was a pleasant day- blue sky, white clouds, with the faint smell of pansies in the air. Just beyond the bend of the river, Rivaille could see the patch of the delicate flowers, faint yellow and purple among the grassy green. Once, they had covered the slope of the river bend, reached far out to touch at the edge of the forest nearby- once upon a time.

He knelt by the water, and peered over to see his reflection distorted by the movement of the water. From here, he couldn’t see the dark bangs underneath his eyes, but nor could he recognize himself in it. Behind him, he could see the figure of a man approaching. Sly bastard- he didn’t need to turn around to know who that was. Fingers clenched into the soft fabric of the shirts, and Rivaille thrust the cloth down into the freezing cold water. The water bit into his skin, scratching and searing into him before settling into a numbing calm.

“Hey, Erwin, pass me the soap. Don’t just stand there.”

It was in the end of spring when they first approached the riverbank, towards the woods, where the trees and branches offered a better environment for the maneuver gear. Rivaille recalled how light the gear was in comparison to his old one, and yet, he had never walked with a heavier step, the soles of his boots crushing fallen lilac petals. He followed Erwin, barely keeping pace with the taller man’s strides. And in order to reach the woods, they would have to cross the river. For Erwin, that meant two steps on solid rock; for Rivaille, two wobbly steps before he slipped on his third and fell with shallow splash and a metallic clang. Erwin had stopped in his tracks, and looked over his shoulder to see Rivaille cursing, his hand rubbing his sore tailbone as he slowly pushed himself back on his feet. That was all: a look, a glance, an unspoken apology before he moved on, the darkness of the forest swallowing him whole.

As if words could make up for the things he had done.

The soap suds gathered, and Rivaille could smell the clean scent of the soap overpower the faint aroma of the pansies. The stains on the shirt faded under his fingertips, and the dirt and grime was taken downstream, out of reach, out of sight. Wringing the shirt out, he put it in a separate pile in the basket and reached for another shirt.

He had never particularly liked the rain; it was disgustingly filthy, and he could hardly see with the fog clouding his visibility and his wet bangs clinging to his forehead. The downpour soaked him to the bone, and despite his urging he could feel his horse slowing down, will broken by exhaustion. Already he could hear the earth-shaking footsteps of the pursuing titan. It was much too close for comfort. He hissed into his stead’s ear, hoping to prolong the inevitable if for a bit longer. If he could perhaps find someone from the squad again, or a tree or _something_ besides the intangible mist that surrounded him. His grip on the reins tightened, allowing the rough leather to burn into his palms even more. He couldn’t hear anything but those approaching footsteps and the beating of his own heart, magnified by the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Until, all at once, the footsteps stopped, interrupted forever by a thundering crash. Rivaille slowed his horse to a near stop as he turned around, breathing heavily, dilated pupils turning towards the silhouette appearing from the dissipating mist, coated in steaming red blood. As they rode back, the sunlight finally chased away the last of the fog, and Rivaille realized that they had been in a meadow the entire time, the soft white of wild daisies stained with blood in the aftermath.

“You know, I still don’t know you that well.” The pile of clean clothes was gradually increasing, the pristine white overpowering the filthy gray in the basket. “But I guess I should have expected that.” The shirt sloshed around in the water, the last of the oil stains leaving cotton threads and seams as Rivaille pulled the shirt from the water. A sheer, translucent wall of water fell from the soaked shirt, and the figure behind him disappeared for a split second before it returned, as if it was only a flickering flame. There were only a few more shirts now, and Rivaille knew those well. The texture of the fabric, the unseen seams, every rise and fall of its hem.

Rivaille never mourned; he did not have the energy to do so anymore. Nonetheless, he allowed himself some rare solitude after he forced Eren back in bed when the boy had gotten up in the middle of the night. Teenagers were but children. Age held little significance for Rivaille- they were hardly a measure of how many years and eons he was holding inside himself. The castle was eerily dark behind him, and only a sliver of the waning moon shed light on him. He clenched his jacket closer around him, despite the stifling summer heat outside. Either way, he felt like suffocating. Rivaille cursed as the cold water sent shock waves through his injured foot- he didn’t think the water could soak through his shoes. Startled, he turned around, ready to nag Eren back to bed because why had he woken up again when he realized that it was someone else.

“What is it, Erwin?” Rivaille asked, as Erwin’s calculating gaze swept through him. “If there’s something you needed, why didn’t you ask me when we were inside?”

“I thought I’d get a breath of fresh air.” Erwin’s hand fell on his shoulder. His touch was always heavy, a burden for Rivaille’s already heavy mind. “Besides, you took my jacket again.”

“I’m borrowing it.” Rivaille’s steady gaze met Erwin’s. “If you’re here to apologize, both you and I know there’s no need for that.” The words sounded more bitter than he meant it to be, and for a moment, Rivaille regretted it.

Erwin’s expression hardened, and Rivaille didn’t know what to expect when he was suddenly trapped between strong arms, a bulky body lining up with his smaller figure. His arms were restrained in that embrace, and he fought against it, writhing, hissing, fists burying themselves violently into Erwin’s muscular frame. “Let go of me, let go-”

“It’s only fair if you do the same first.”

Rivaille took out the next shirt, fingering the wrinkled garment before immersing it in the water. His hands were red from the intense scrubbing and the icy cold water, his wrists stinging with protest whenever he submerged his arms in the water. Still, he continued washing, the caustic smell of soap invading his nostrils. “I don’t necessarily hate anyone, Erwin,” he said, chaffing the soap against the rough cloth and watching the foamy soap suds form. “But I hate loving you.”

Love was a luxury, a luxury that Rivaille had never allowed himself to enjoy. It was a sweet poison, deadly as it was beautiful, blissful as it was ugly. And yet, he was a man, a human who had allowed himself to delve in deeper than he wanted to. And by the time the monstrous tentacles of love had grabbed him, the end had already come.

The last shirt was the dirtiest one. Dark brown stains covered the shirt, stiffening it. Even the cold water took its time in softening it into a material that somewhat resembled fabric again, and Rivaille knew that this shirt would take the longest to wash. Regardless, he continued scrubbing blindly, mechanically, as if his life was dependent on the friction between the soap bar and the fabric. The river’s clear water became obscured with dark brown and red streaks, reminiscent of a red dawn. “You have to take better care of your clothes, you asshole,” Rivaille said, as his fingers became entangled in the broken strands of the shirt sleeve. “I don’t want to have to clean up after you all the time.” The shadow behind him flickered, as if insulted, but he continued on nonetheless. “I’m not gonna be your damn woman, because in the end, I can’t- and I _won’t_ \- sit down and sew everything back together for you, you know.”

The stains were sticking onto the shirt stubbornly, refusing to fade away. The edges of the stains had been crusty, kept dirty for too long, and the fragmented strands of a broken seam and missing sleeve made it evident that the shirt was no longer worth keeping.

When he walked back, he was alone.

It was worthless, these shirts, he realized. The elegant breeze picked up the edges of them after he went back to hang them, and he marveled at the elegance of the dance the white fabric engaged in. They were half a dozen pairs of white wings against the dark green of the forest scenery behind them, stuttering, trembling, struggling to break free of the pins that held them to the clothesline. Rivaille stared blankly at the billowing fabric for a few more seconds, before walking back into the castle, where he was greeted by a panicked Connie and Hanji.

“Where were you, captain?”

“It’s the day you picked for your own damn wedding, and you run off to do laundry?”

“You know, Eren’s not gonna be happy if you’re late, and I don’t really wanna see-”

“Ah, Rivaille, you’re really getting old, aren’t you?”

Rivaille allowed the two of them to pull him away, leaving the laundry in flight as he dressed, and uttered his vows amid blessings and kisses, love and careful wishes. Happiness. Here he had found it, among old comrades and new friends.

But love he had lost to the myriad of memories that had been carried off in the flowing sands of time.


End file.
